looked more like a teenager—was leaning over with
his head in his lap as if he were bracing himself for a crash landing in an aeroplane, and his back was heaving. After a few moments he straightened up to get more air, and she could see that his
face was already blotchy. His nose was running, and, being quite unable to think of anything to say, Karen pulled out a pack of tissues from her briefcase and passed it to him. He dried his nose
and eyes, but didn’t stop sobbing. Karen had no idea how to console a remorseful murderer, but nevertheless pulled her chair closer and took his hand.
They stayed sitting in that position for over ten minutes. It felt more like an hour—probably for both of them, Karen thought. At last the young man’s breathing became somewhat less
ragged. She let go of his hand and soundlessly pushed back her chair, as if to erase the short period of intimacy and trust.
“Perhaps you could tell me a bit more now,” she said in a quiet voice, offering him a fresh cigarette. He took it with a trembling hand, like a bad actor. She knew it was genuine,
and gave him a light.
“I don’t know what to say,” he stammered. “The fact is that I’ve killed a man. But I’ve done a lot of other things too, and I don’t want to talk myself
into a life sentence. And I don’t know how to speak about one thing without revealing others.”
Karen was in some perplexity. She was accustomed to treating information with the greatest discretion and confidentiality. She wouldn’t have had many clients had she not possessed that
quality. But confidentiality up till now had been about finance, industrial secrets, and business tactics. She had never received a confidence about anything unequivocally criminal, and was in a
quandary about what she could keep to herself without falling foul of the law. But before she’d even thought through the problem, she decided to put the Dutchman’s mind at rest.
“Whatever you say to me will be between the two of us. I’m your lawyer, and bound by the rules of professional confidentiality.”
After a few final sighs he blew his nose vigorously into a wet tissue and began to tell her all about it.
“I was in a sort of syndicate. I say ‘sort of,’ because quite honestly I don’t know very much about it. I know of two others in it, but they’re people at my own
level: we collect and deliver, and sell a little now and then. My contact runs a secondhand car business north of the city centre, up in Sagene. But it’s pretty big, the whole operation. I
think. There’ve never been any problems getting paid for the jobs I’ve done. A bloke like myself can travel to the Netherlands as often as he wants without arousing any suspicion. I
visited my mother every time.”
At the thought of his mother he broke down again.
“I’ve never been in trouble with the police before, neither here nor back home,” he sniffed. “Oh hell, how long do you think I’ll get?”
Karen knew very well what a murderer could expect. And maybe even a drug courier. But she said nothing, just shrugged her shoulders.
“I’ve probably made about ten to fifteen runs in all,” he went on. “Unbelievably easy job, in fact. I would be given a rendezvous in Amsterdam in advance, always a
different place. The goods would be completely sealed. In rubber. I would swallow the packets, without actually knowing what was in them.”
He paused for a moment before correcting himself.
“Well, I guessed it was heroin. Must have known it was, really. About a hundred grams each time. That’s more than two thousand fixes. Everything went okay, and I got my twenty
thousand on delivery. Plus all expenses paid.”
His voice was thick, but he was explaining himself clearly enough. He sat tearing at the tissues, which were just about shredded to pieces already. He stared at his hands throughout, as if he
couldn’t believe they had so brutally killed another person exactly a week
his head in his lap as if he were bracing himself for a crash landing in an aeroplane, and his back was heaving. After a few moments he straightened up to get more air, and she could see that his
face was already blotchy. His nose was running, and, being quite unable to think of anything to say, Karen pulled out a pack of tissues from her briefcase and passed it to him. He dried his nose
and eyes, but didn’t stop sobbing. Karen had no idea how to console a remorseful murderer, but nevertheless pulled her chair closer and took his hand.
They stayed sitting in that position for over ten minutes. It felt more like an hour—probably for both of them, Karen thought. At last the young man’s breathing became somewhat less
ragged. She let go of his hand and soundlessly pushed back her chair, as if to erase the short period of intimacy and trust.
“Perhaps you could tell me a bit more now,” she said in a quiet voice, offering him a fresh cigarette. He took it with a trembling hand, like a bad actor. She knew it was genuine,
and gave him a light.
“I don’t know what to say,” he stammered. “The fact is that I’ve killed a man. But I’ve done a lot of other things too, and I don’t want to talk myself
into a life sentence. And I don’t know how to speak about one thing without revealing others.”
Karen was in some perplexity. She was accustomed to treating information with the greatest discretion and confidentiality. She wouldn’t have had many clients had she not possessed that
quality. But confidentiality up till now had been about finance, industrial secrets, and business tactics. She had never received a confidence about anything unequivocally criminal, and was in a
quandary about what she could keep to herself without falling foul of the law. But before she’d even thought through the problem, she decided to put the Dutchman’s mind at rest.
“Whatever you say to me will be between the two of us. I’m your lawyer, and bound by the rules of professional confidentiality.”
After a few final sighs he blew his nose vigorously into a wet tissue and began to tell her all about it.
“I was in a sort of syndicate. I say ‘sort of,’ because quite honestly I don’t know very much about it. I know of two others in it, but they’re people at my own
level: we collect and deliver, and sell a little now and then. My contact runs a secondhand car business north of the city centre, up in Sagene. But it’s pretty big, the whole operation. I
think. There’ve never been any problems getting paid for the jobs I’ve done. A bloke like myself can travel to the Netherlands as often as he wants without arousing any suspicion. I
visited my mother every time.”
At the thought of his mother he broke down again.
“I’ve never been in trouble with the police before, neither here nor back home,” he sniffed. “Oh hell, how long do you think I’ll get?”
Karen knew very well what a murderer could expect. And maybe even a drug courier. But she said nothing, just shrugged her shoulders.
“I’ve probably made about ten to fifteen runs in all,” he went on. “Unbelievably easy job, in fact. I would be given a rendezvous in Amsterdam in advance, always a
different place. The goods would be completely sealed. In rubber. I would swallow the packets, without actually knowing what was in them.”
He paused for a moment before correcting himself.
“Well, I guessed it was heroin. Must have known it was, really. About a hundred grams each time. That’s more than two thousand fixes. Everything went okay, and I got my twenty
thousand on delivery. Plus all expenses paid.”
His voice was thick, but he was explaining himself clearly enough. He sat tearing at the tissues, which were just about shredded to pieces already. He stared at his hands throughout, as if he
couldn’t believe they had so brutally killed another person exactly a week
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